


Postmortem

by Batwynn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Allison is dead, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Canon, Angst and Humor, BAMF Stiles, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, F/M, Flashbacks, Graphic Description, Hurt Stiles, Ignores Season 4, M/M, Magic Stiles, POV Stiles, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Protective Derek, Scott is a Bad Friend, Scott is a Good Friend, Scott/Issac sort of thing, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles, Stiles Stilinski Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Stiles Stilinski is Part of the Pack, Stiles is off his medication, Stiles-centric, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5037175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Nogitsune is gone, but so are a lot of other people, too. Everyone who's left keeps trying to tell him he'll get better, with time.</p><p>The question is: when do they ever have time to heal in Beacon Hills?</p><p>Aka: When Stiles needs help, and Derek sort of kidnaps him. [Hey, at least he's trying.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postmortem

**Author's Note:**

> I feel I should warn you: This is my first Teen Wolf fic, and I don't edit well, and I make mistakes. I also tend to post at 2AM, and i'm working on 7 fics and a comic at the same time, so updates are a tiny bit slow right now.

                                  

* * *

 

 

One night, about two years before a dead body in the woods became his gateway drug into werewolfism, Stiles stayed up all night watching documentaries. Actually, he had spent two nights before that watching documentaries and or perusing Wikipedia, so really, he might have been pushing it on the whole lack-of-sleep thing. That night, though, he managed to make it to 4 AM with a Twizzler hanging from his mouth, notebook open with more doodles than actual notes, and wow, he knew _so_ much more about ants than he probably ever needed to. Fire ants, in particular. Red ants running around in perfect rows, marching one by one—and yes, he’d been humming that since the documentary started—like red veins of angry… well, ants. 

 

I mean, come on. They can attack and _kill_ small animals? They bite _and_ spit acid into the wound afterword? That was so bad-ass, in the terrifying ‘I don’t ever want to meet you, but you sound cool from afar’ kind of way. Like, he needed more info on how to _kill_ an infestation of them, rather than their mating habits. But, unfortunately, sleep was finally staking its claim on him after his three-night documentary binge, and the last thing he remembered were those long, writhing lines of red before he dozed off for good. 

 

He remembered everything he learned about ants until suddenly he didn’t anymore. None of it was important, and he needed to make room for new information. Because, back then, Stiles would look into things when he was interested, not because it was trying to _kill_ them.

 

* * *

 

 

It didn’t matter how much he tried to change his room around, he just couldn’t banish the image from his mind. Why couldn’t anyone, and seriously, _anyone_ else fix his room for him before he got home from the hospital? No one could take two minutes to remove the names of the ‘players’ from the chess board? Or how about the red strings stretched across the room, stabbed into his bed with scissors? And now, only a few days later, he still caught those angry red veins out of the corner of his eye, even though he tore them down himself the second he walked through the door. 

 

Last night was just another repeat. Flickers of shadows, red in the corner of his eyes, and no sleep at all. In fact, he had a feeling the last time he actually slept was when he passed out on the floor of the school after his ‘divine move’.

 

**YOU**

**CAN’T**

**KILL**

**ME!**

 

Stiles blinked. 

 

His reflection blinked back, and the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth dripped toothpaste into the sink, and the hand holding it was only shaking a _little bit_ , and he was fine. It was normal. _Everything_ was normal.

 

Oddly enough, that confirmed absolutely nothing about himself anymore. 

 

 _Everyone has it, but no one can lose it._  
  
_Oh hooray_ , Stiles thought with a bitter smile. _It’s back again._

 

It had only been a few days since he killed people, coughed up another version of himself, and somehow didn’t die. A few days that felt like a hundred years to him seemed to be flying by for everyone else. Time was moving on, funerals were being prepared, the station was under repairs, Issac and Scott were now best buds who morned together in what was probably an unhealthy way. Not that Stiles could comment on _health_. They kept telling him to take it easy, don’t rush, _it’s not your fault_ —which he wouldn’t touch with a ten foot poll. Oh, and ‘You’ll feel better in time.’ They didn’t seem to understand that, yeah, the Nogitsune was dead, and somehow their new bro-bond was helping them move past everything, but he wasn’t getting better at _all_. He wasn’t even in the same timezone as better. 

 

Firstly, he seemed to be having Nogitsune echoes, or something _._ All the same weird, dark riddles and that creepy intuitive stuff that always turned out to be right _._ And it _was_ right about him, wasn’t it? It knew Stiles wasn’t good, that he was all wrong, and warped inside where no one else could see. It had told him how to fix that. That there was only one solution for a person like him. Just one answer. 

 

_“They have to put it down, Stiles, ” His dad spoke softly, one hand closing over his shoulder and squeezing firmly. It made him feel small, but that was okay. His dad had always seemed so huge to him, larger than life. Comfort, home, and safe. That was his dad._

 

_“I know it feels bad, but that dog is dangerous.”_

 

_“I don’t want them to do it,” he argued, crossing his arms over his chest and sticking out his lower lip. The neighbors were a bunch of J.E.R.K.S, and everyone on the block knew they were mistreating that dog. Of course it got mad and bit someone, but it didn’t mean they had to kill it. He would stand firm on this, darn it. His dad always said he was as stubborn as his mother, and he said it like it was a good thing. Even if they were pretty much always butting heads._

 

_“He’s not healthy anymore, son. If they don’t do it, he’ll only end up hurting somebody else.”_

 

_“Why can’t they make him not crazy? Don’t they have medication for that, like the one they gave mom that calmed her down?” he huffed, his anger getting the better of him and it was such a_ **_stupid_ ** _thing to say._

 

_They didn’t talk about that kind of stuff, it was an unspoken rule. The Stilinski’s didn’t talk about what mom was like during those last few months, or the things she said when she got a little weird and panicked. They didn’t talk about what she begged Stiles to do, two weeks before she died._

 

_The hand was gone from his shoulder before he could amend what his words, and this time, there was no fond reminder of how alike he and his mother were._

 

_“I’m sorry, but this is the only way,” his dad said, and Stiles was so,_ **_so_ ** _sick of hearing those words already._

 

 

He blinked at himself again, counting the seconds between feeling and seeing his eyes blink. He swore there was a pause before his reflection blinked, but maybe he was just crazy. Maybe he needed to be put down. 

 

_Everyone has it, but no one can lose it._

 

_Possible answer B: A reflection._

 

Shuddering, Stiles ducked his head to glare into the sink until he finished brushing his teeth. 

 

It wasn’t as though he was one to stare at his face on a daily basis, anyway. His recent levels of self-esteem were around a negative 10 on a 1-10 scale. Not that it was anything new. For years, Stiles never saw what he wanted to see when he looked in the mirror. He was never as attractive as he was ‘supposed’ to be. He was never muscley enough, skin never clear enough, his lips were still girly even after puberty hit, his eyelashes were too long, hair a boring brown, his arms were too skinny-weird, and don’t even get him started on his ears. 

 

But none of that was the issue, these days. God, he didn’t even _care_ about stuff like that. It wasn’t about what he lacked physically, the issue was meeting his eyes, and seeing everything _they_ lacked. 

 

Everything that just wasn’t there anymore. 

 

So, maybe it was a good thing he had practice avoiding his reflection. 

 

“Stiles?” His dad called out from the bottom of the stairs. “If you’re going to school today, finish up ands get your butt down here.” 

 

“Yeah, yeah, i’m coming.”

 

Tossing his toothbrush back in the cup, he ducked out of the bathroom to grab his bag from his room. He wasn’t going to look around, just get the bag and get out of there. The red strings were gone. Everything was normal. 

 

Right, because bolting out of his own room like a bat out of hell was _completely_ normal. He was lucky he didn’t end up falling face first down the stairs. 

 

Looking up at the sound of Stiles—almost—falling to his death down the stairs, his dad spoke, “You know, you don’t have to go in yet. I could probably convince them to give you a whole— _Jesus!_ Stiles, did you get any sleep at all?” 

 

“I nabbed a few hours in the AM,” he lied, knowing all too well how dark the shadows under his eyes were still. Annnndd there was his first lie of the day. Maybe he could keep it at one today, if he just didn’t talk, maybe set a new record. Maybe manage to not hate himself anymore than he already did. 

 

“How many hours?” asked the sheriff, obviously not convinced. 

 

Stiles avoided another lie by shrugging, and brushed past him to find his sneakers. The Old Stiles would have been up not long after his dad was (If it wasn’t one of those nights where his dad got off work while he was just waking up), and they used to have a quick breakfast together before going their separate days. New Stiles didn’t like to eat just yet, but they told him he’d get better. 

 

“Stiles…” and there it was, the worried tone that was starting to grate at his nerves. It’d been three days of Worried-Tones from everyone, even Scott. Scott wasn’t allowed to Worry-Tone him when he lost… when Allison… when he killed…

 

When he…

 

When…

 

“Stiles?” came his dad’s voice again, sounding pinched, like it wasn’t the first, or even the second time he’d said his name. “Stiles, hey…”

He turned, and stared at his dad for a stupidly long time before he realized what had happened. 

 

“Sorry, blanked out again,” he murmured, and took a step back when his dad reached out a hand for him. Another thing Old Stiles would have been fine with that he just couldn’t do anymore. Touching was… not great right now. 

 

“Maybe we should postpone—“ He started to say, but Stiles stopped him with a shake of his head, and took another step towards the door.

 

“No, I need to go back to school. I need any kind of normality, okay?” 

 

His dad was obviously torn between giving him what he wanted, and doing what he felt was right. That, at least, was a normal day in the Stilinski household. All he needed to do was drive the point home with some kind Normal-Stiles thing to say. 

 

“Besides,” he added casually, “Scott’s been there all by himself for days, he needs me to steal his curly fries, dad. It’s an integral part of his day.” 

 

Apparently it was the curly fries that sealed the deal, because the sheriff nodded like it was the most sensible thing in the world, and let it go. Which, seriously, it _wasn’t_ sensible at all, and it was kind of scary how easy it was to manipulate his dad. Or how easy it was to manipulate _all_ of them. 

 

“Alright, but call me the second you need anything,” his dad replied gruffly, grabbing his to-go cup and his keys before checking his holster. Again. “I’ll come pick you up. No driving if you start to blank out again, you got that?” 

 

Stiles rolled his eyes like he usually did, and huffed, “Dad, think of your heart, and stop worrying. I’ll be _fine_.”

 

Lie #2. He was loosing the battle, already. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Never mind that, he was losing the entire fucking _war_. 

 

Stiles really didn’t think about what returning to school would be like after everything that happened, and he probably should have made some actual plans for dealing with it. Maybe a good pep talk, maybe some reflection on the events, maybe a single thought of what it’d be like to be back here, or how people might react, or what he might be missing.  
  
Because he was seriously not ready to pull up into the parking lot and realize that Allison’s car was absent, or that the twin’s motorcycles were also very _not there_. And once he pushed past those echoes and thoughts, he wasn’t prepared for the empty space by the front door that was usually occupied by Scott, waiting for him to arrive so they could walk in together—annnd he probably should have told Scott he was coming back today, so that was fine. 

 

He was totally fine, he could walk to class himself, and not think about those parking spaces and what it meant.

 

He really, really was not prepared for the flowers.

 

The flowers taped to the lockers of people he knew. 

 

And killed. 

 

 

Luckily enough, Stiles made it to the bathroom sink before he threw up. He didn’t know which would have been worse, barfing all over the floor, or blanking out in front of everyone. Maybe barfing and blanking? Yeah, that sounded pretty awful. 

Still, it wasn’t a good start to his first day back, and now his throat burned with more than just bile. That ever-present tremors in his hands was also at the point where his fingers were almost a blur.  

 

And, because he wasn’t jumpy enough, someone decided to burst through the door, and barrel towards him yelling, “Stiles!?” 

 

His first reaction was to duck and cover, but he was feeling pretty weak, so he just sort of flopped to the floor to get away from—Scott, of _course_ it was Scott. 

 

“Ta-daa,” he croaked, pulling out the jazz hands. “Stiles is h-here.” 

 

Lie #3. 

 

Scott looked ready to say something in the official Worried-Tone, before he wrinkled his nose and quickly turned on the water in the sink Stiles threw up in. Which didn’t… oh, right, werewolf senses and vomit, not a good combo. 

 

“Dude, why are you here?” Scoot asked as he crouched down in front of him and offered a hand. Stiles avoided said hand, because he wasn’t Old Stiles, and scrambled to get off the germ-infested floor all on his own. He’d done pretty well, if he did say so himself. 

 

“Uh, because it’s school and I can’t avoid it forever.”

 

“Stiles…”

 

“ _Scott_.” 

 

“It’s only been a few days, dude, you really shouldn’t—“ 

 

“ _You’re_ here,” Stiles interrupted sharply. 

 

“Yeah, but I didn’t have a crazy evil-fox doing stuff in my body for weeks and weeks.” 

 

“Yeah, but you just lost—“ he cut himself off, but not before gutting his friend without even saying her name. 

 

_Good job, Stiles, way to fucking go. Just drag everyone down, that’s what you’re good at. You’re a rock, not the sturdy wall-building kind, the kind that drags you to the bottom of the river._

 

“Sorry, uh… Look, i’m just here to eat your curly friends and turn in my homework,” he continued, hoping to banish that hollow look on his friend’s face. He may be a total fuck up, but there was no reason not to try a little humor for Scott’s sake. That’s what Old Stiles would have done, and both versions of himself were good at pretending. Speaking of…

 

Lie #4.

 

Scott didn’t exactly smile, but it was a near thing. “Fine, turn in your homework, but you can’t have my fries.”

 

“Aww, come on,” Stiles whined, shouldering his bag and following Scott out into the hall again. “You know that’s the only reason I actually showed up today.”

 

“So not because of classes or homework, or your GPA?” 

 

“Nope.”Not a lie. 

 

Instead of a smile, Scott gave him a strange look, and went quiet. Which was just great, because he had no idea what he did wrong. Something the Old Stiles wouldn’t have done, probably. He’d have to be more careful, especially with those werewolf senses. He had a feeling he’d be telling a lot of lies from here on out. 

 

 

 

By lunch, Stiles came to the conclusion that:

 

No amount of pep-talking or mental preparation could have helped him face a day full of stares and whispers. People who had been there for some of the events, who had seen Stiles running around like a chicken without a head. They didn’t need to know that it was all his fault to get curious about his absence. 

 

2\. High school students were actual idiots. The main rumor was that Stiles was secretly in love with Allison, and skipped school to avoid Scott. That was almost better than the truth, at least.

 

3\. Avoiding eye contact with anything alive _and_ the lockers is harder than it looks. 

 

5\. He should have known that if the lockers were bad, running into Lydia was going to be worse.

 

And it was. 

 

At least he didn’t throw up, this time. 

 

The only sound Lydia made when she realized who was walking towards her was a tiny, ‘oh,’ while her eyes grew wide with—oh god, _no_ —fear. Then, to make it even worse, she didn’t snap at him, or hit him over the head, or anything Lydia-like. Her eyes simply slid away from him like he was nothing at all, and she was gone before Stiles could even come up with anything to say. 

 

Like, ‘ _I’m sorry I killed your friend_.’ Or, ‘I _’m sorry I survived.’_  

 

 

“That went better than I expected,” Scott admitted when they reached the parking lot, and now Stiles really wanted to hit him in that uneven jaw of his. 

 

“ _That_ was _better_? What did you expect, Scott? Explosions?” he snapped. 

 

Scott pursed his lips, and shrugged. “With what’s been happening lately? Yeah, kinda.” 

 

“Oh, _thanks_. I’m so glad my time being possessed set the standard for our day to day lives now.” 

 

Scott scowled at him, and muttered, “What are you…? That’s not what I meant.” 

 

“Whatever, I need to go,” he hissed, turning away from Scott before he did something he’d regret. Because that urge to hit him was turning into something sharper, more deadly, more… toothy. 

 

But Scott didn’t give up. Allison died, his best friend kind of caused it, dozens of other people were seriously hurt or killed, and Scott was _still_ the same Scott. Why hadn’t he changed, too? Was it just Stiles who was broken? 

 

“Wait, dude, come on. Come over and veg out with me,” he pleaded, reaching for Stile’s arm. It was a mistake, because today had sucked, and he was at the end of his rope, and Stiles just turned and _snarled_ at him until Scott took a step back and looked… he looked pretty terrified. 

 

And that was just it. Final straw. No more. Game over. He wasn’t good enough for this, he wasn’t _healthy_. Healthy, human people don’t snarl at their best friends like they’re going to rip their throat out. That was a werewolf thing, a Derek thing. He wasn’t Derek, he was… 

 

He wasn’t anything. 

 

_What gets bigger the more you take away?_

 

_A hole. A void. The, big, empty space that used to be Stiles._

 

Scott was saying something, his voice tight and worried _,_ but Stiles couldn’t hear it over theechoes in his ears. The rattling breath of something that was supposed to be dead. 

 

And then he was sitting in his driveway, with no memory of what he said to Scott—if he did say anything else to him—or getting into his jeep and driving home. Slowly he looked down at his hands, half expecting blood, or burns, or a knife. 

 

There was nothing there, but that didn’t confirm anything about himself. Because blackouts weren’t normal. He wasn’t supposed to be like this anymore, they killed it. The Nogitsune is dead. 

 

They said he’d get better. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

For some awful reason, It was really cold. Well, except for this one part of his upper arm. That part was warm. Which was seriously annoying because the rest of him wanted to be warm too, not just that tiny, useless spot. 

 

“…Come ooon…” he groaned, trying to curl up under his blankets. 

 

“Stiles…” 

 

Oh, wait, the warm spot was getting bigger. Good blanket. Wait, what was the riddle again?

 

_What get’s warmer the drier_ … no, that wasn’t it.

 

“Stiles.” 

 

_What falls apart the longer you hold it?_

 

“Stiles!” 

 

 _That_ got him awake, in a sort of flailing, heart-attack way, and no, there were no blankets. There wasn’t even a bed. There _was_ a blurry face hovering in over him, and dirt, and leaves stuck to his face.  
  
Again.  
  
It was happening again. 

 

“Oh my _god_ ,” he whimpered, and lifted his hands up to check for blood once again. The sun was already going down, but even in the dull light, Stile could tell there was nothing on them but dirt, and one, two, three, four, five fingers. Was five right? It was five one each. He just needed to calm down, to think. He must remember something… if he could just think a little—what the hell was that? A high-pitched keening sound that was—oh, coming from _him_. 

 

He bit down on his lip and forced himself to stop. 

 

“Stiles… are you listening?” the blur asked. 

 

“No.”

 

“Could you _try_ to listen?”

 

“You think i’m not trying?” he growled, whipping his head up to glare at the blur. Who was looking more and more like—“Derek?” 

 

Indeed, that was Derek Hale, looking intense as hell with his eyebrows all furrowed up like that. Vaguely, Stiles wondered if Derek ever named them, since each one had way too much personality all on their own. Fuzz 1 and Fuzz 2? Caterpillar and Shag Rug? No, no. Wait. Cranky and Grumpy.

 

“What happened?” Derek was asking, and Stiles frowned. Why ask him? He didn’t know anything, apparently. 

 

“No idea. I was… uh, I think I drove home?” 

 

The eyebrows twitched, and intensified. That should _not_ be possible. 

 

“Drove home from where, Stiles?” 

 

“School?” 

 

“The last thing you remember is driving home from school,” Derek said slowly, as if confirming something he already knew, and dreaded. Stiles stopped looking at his eyebrows—actually, his entire face all together—and focused on what was making those warm spots on his arms. As it turned out, the heat was from where Derek’s stupid werewolf hands were holding him up, and it was incredibly rude not to share more of that. 

 

“Hey,” he blurted out, jerking his head back around. “Think I can get a hug or at least a pat on the back? I’m seriously freezing, and i’ve had the shittiest day—which, by the sounds of it, is only going to get shittier from here on out. So, dude, hug? I’ll owe you.” 

 

Derek huffed, “I am not hugging you, Stiles. Get up, and I’ll drive you home.”

 

“I save your life— over and over again, I remind you—and you’re too emotionally stunted to give me a warming-up hug?” 

 

“You tried to kill me,” Derek pointed out, mulish and cranky. Then, instantly shut his mouth, because he _better know_ that was just fucking cruel. 

 

Stiles hissed, “I think I’ll find my own way home,” and shoved himself upward and way from Derek’s body. This, sadly, meant the heater-hands were gone, leaving two more spots to add to his freezing collection. Derek was such an asshole. 

 

“I’ll drive you.” Still an asshole.

 

“I’ll walk.”

 

“Stiles, you’re shivering.” 

 

“You almost sound worried,” he huffed, attempting to sound amused and failing. “Is it because you’re worried about me or _everyone_ _else_?” 

 

Derek’s brows did some crazy stuff, but thankfully, he didn’t open his mouth again. Stiles spared him one last nasty smile—because he was pissed off and cold, and not thinking about anything but how pissed off and cold he was—before stalking off in what he assumed was the general direction of home. 

 

A few minutes later, he realized two things. 

 

1: He might have been wrong, he had no idea what was in this direction, but he had a feeling it wasn’t home.

 

 

2: Derek was following him. 

 

“Can you, for once in your life, _not_ be a creeper?” Stiles snapped over his shoulder, not falling for the odd, wounded look that flashed across Derek’s face before the usual grump settled back in. Derek had nothing on Scotts ‘wounded puppy’ expression, even if it was extremely rare to see on Derek at all. 

 

“I’m taking you home,” he grumbled.

 

“You’re stalking me through the woods, there’s a difference.” 

 

He caught Derek’s shrug out of the corner of his eye, while be continued to mutter at Stiles’ back, “Since you won’t let me drive you…” 

 

“Oh, i’m sooooo sorry, I thought you didn’t want a murderer in your car with you.” 

 

“Stiles—“ He stopped when Stiles spun around and put his hand up. Which, huh, that was working a lot better than usual. Maybe he had a new weapon against all this talking. 

 

“Could you _please_ —“ See? He could be polite.”—go back to your car and leave me alone?” 

 

He could see Derek considering it, anything to get away from the angry teenager, probably. But, instead, he stalked closer to Stiles and glared down at him with the intensity of a thousand suns.

 

“Stiles, I just found you unconscious in the woods in the exact same place as the last time we found you out here. I’m not leaving you alone out here.” 

 

He could… actually feel the blood draining from his face, now. How could that even be possible? He didn’t even know how to get to that spot, unless it was muscle memory or something. That shouldn’t have happened, though. He was supposed to be getting better, god dammit. 

 

“You… no. You got it wrong.” 

 

“You honestly think I don’t have that area burned into my memory?” 

 

Stiles snapped, “I honestly think you need to fuck off, Derek.”

 

There was the usual baring of the teeth, and the rising of the hackles, but Derek stepped back, rather than getting in his face every other time they bitched at each other. He didn’t even shove Stiles into a tree, this time. 

 

“If that’s how you want it, fine. Have a good walk home,” Derek growled, backing away one step at a time, and, because he’s an _asshole_ , added, “But if anything else happens, it’s on _you_.” 

 

“Thanks for that,” he sneered, “Like I could ever fucking _forget_.” 

 

Then, Derek was gone, leaving Stiles to trudge through the cold to get home, as promised. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t have a single panic attack the entire walk back. He was too pissed off at Derek to think about anything other than waxing up those eyebrows of his and ripping them off.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Scott didn’t seem to take Stiles'  immediate departure, complete with snarl and much angry glaring to heart. In fact, he was as persistent as ever to make their school life as normal as possible.  


It was an impossible mission, on his side, but he had gotten better at pretending for Scott’s sake.

 

With two days of cultivating the numbness slowly filling his mind, Stiles could make it through all his classes without throwing up. This was mostly because he said as little as possible to anyone outside of Scott. If people thought it was weird that the usually unstoppable talking Stiles was now silent, it didn’t matter. That’s what being numb was for. 

 

The not speaking plan was helping kill two birds with one stone. On the one hand, he didn’t make as many Old Stiles vs. New Stiles mistakes that made everyone look at him strangely—which he’d had enough of already—and on the other, he didn’t freak out as much. Since, these days, there were too many words that could make him nauseous on cue, or make him shut down for hours at a time, it was better to avoid conversation as much as possible. Well, listening to other people talk would be fine and dandy, if he could tune the idiots out or bully his way through a panic attack whenever someone said something about holes, or doors, or explosions. The bigger problem was not so much others speaking, but himself. More than half the time, could not _stand_ hearing in his own voice anymore. Because the fucking Nogitsune stole his voice, and used it to say ugly, horrible things. It was just _unfair,_ and gross, and Stiles would rather avoid it all together. 

 

_But life’s unfair_ , he reminded himself. That’s what everyone said when you complained about fairness or fate handing you the short end of the short stick. Except for those motivational posters with the kittens hanging off of branches that told you to ‘Hang in there!’ Maybe he could get himself one of those and stick up up where he used to have his Crime Wall. That might help him get through this, or, at least make his dad laugh. Or worry more. Who knew, it was a weird time with his dad right now.

 

“Stiles, you should really come with me to see Deaton,” Scott suggested, for the tenth time, and once again, Stiles ignored him. They were supposed to be studying, anyway. Shut up Scott.

 

“Come on man, it’s—“

 

“No, Scott.”

 

“He says he can help you. I really think you should.” 

 

Stiles ignored him some more and went back to doodling in his sketchbook instead of looking over his non-existent notes. It was better to appear to be slacking off, than explain that he had trouble reading again. And besides, it was probably just the lack of sleep making the words blur, nothing to worry about. Let Scott think he’s being lazy. 

 

After a minute of silence, Scott tried again, “Look, we’re all worried about you. Derek told me what happened in the woods the other day, and I didn’t want to bother you, but…“ 

 

Stiles snapped his head up, and full on glared. “ _You’re_ talking to Derek? Did I stumble into an alternate universe where you two actually seek one another out for conversation?” 

 

“ _He_ talked to me, and no, because we would be so much cooler in an alternate universe.”  


“Damn right we would,” Stiles agreed, feeling the first hint of a smile try to crawl its way on to his face. For all of his numb-cultivating and conversation avoiding, Scott had a horrible way of getting him to talk. It also meant he had a dangerous habit of saying something stupid, and setting Stiles off again.

 

_Numb is better. Dammit, Scott!_

 

His friend, however, took that reply and ran with it, a huge smile forming as he switched the subject to alternate universes and how famous they would be in each one. If Stiles replied a little more than usual, it was only for Scott’s sake. Maybe. 

 

“—And who knows, they probably live on other planets at this point. Not everyone’s going to progress as slowly as we are, right dude? So, we could be… we could be Martians or live on Pluto!” 

 

“Scott, Pluto isn’t a planet anymore, sorry to break it to you,” Stiles sighed. Issac had come over 10 minutes ago to blandly tease them about nerding loudly in the library for an entire study period, before reminding them that said study period was over, and economics was next. 

 

Scott huffed a quiet, “That’s messed up,” over Pluto as he sat down next to Stiles and glanced around the room. As usual, his eyes landed on the now-empty seat, one row over. Kira was seated a few desks away it, staring at Scott miserably while Scott was just zoning out at the empty desk, and Stiles was slipping into another blank out—he had to focus on something, anything else. There had to be—

 

“Alright you little bastards, your wonderful coach has returned at last! I know, I know, you all missed me— _you_ ,” he jabbed at finger at someone in the back.” Stop that signing, your voice is terrible!” 

 

Apparently, Coach was out of the hospital and… Nope. No. Coach was not a good distraction. Coach was just more blood on his hands, and he had been doing _so_ well today. He even forced himself to eat. He didn’t punch Scott. He didn’t puke—he—no…

 

Didn’t need…

 

 

He…

 

 

He didn’t have any idea where he was. This was definitely his jeep, there no mistaking that rattle, and he was going about 80 which was probably a bad sign if he’s blanked out and driving— _shit!_  

 

Stiles slowed down to 30—just in case—and looked around for something familiar other than trees. He wasn’t freaking out, he was pulling over and figuring out where he was and how long he’s been gone. Simple stuff. He could do it. He was calm, and breathing, and—

 

And his phone decided to start screaming at him, “ _SHELTERED, YOU BETTER KEEP YOUR WOLF BACK FROM THE DOOR!_ ”

 

 

“GYAaaahh aaahaaahaano, okay, I n-need to change that,” He gasped, and peeled his fingers from the white-knuckled grip he had on the steering wheel to dig around for his phone. He couldn’t have left without it. He never went anywhere without it, no matter how messed up he was.

 

_“—HE WANDERS EVER CLOSER EVERY NIGHT—“_

 

“No, he does not,” Stiles argued with the song, eyes on the road while he tried to unzip his bag with one hand. Thank you _someone_ that it was late enough for the road to be clear. 

 

“ _—AND NOW HE WAITS, BEGGING FOR BLOOD—_ “

 

 

And why the hell was that so damn loud? Wasn’t he just in school, shouldn’t it be turned off? Didn’t he just—wait, he was in class, and now he’s not. Really, really not. 

 

Stiles choked, “Oh fuck, no… not again. Please not—“

 

“— _I PROMISED YOU EVERYTHING WOULD BE FINE._ ” 

 

“SHUT UP!”

 

Screaming wordlessly, Stiles swerved off the road into the ditch, stomping the breaks just in time before he ran into a tree. He screamed again, because the ringtone started over, and it was too loud, and he was panicking, and now he was punching the dashboard as hard as he could because pain was—it was grounding. Pain was good.   
  
He was still screaming when it finally stopped ringing, when his knuckles cracked open and blood began to spatter the dash, the rearview mirror, and himself. He screamed until someone ripped his car door open, grabbed his arms, and roared in his ear.

 

“ _STOP IT!_ ” 

 

In his panic-attack haze, Stiles flailed at the assailant—which, if half of his brain was working, was the wrong word for someone trying to _stop_ you from breaking your stupid hands. In a lame attempt at shouting back at the guy, a few gurgling sounds escaped while he tried one more time to get a hit in. 

 

“Stiles, would you… just—fucking—stop!” the not-an-assailant gritted out, pinning his flailing arms to his chest and pressing him back into his seat.

 

“I’m sorry!” he burst out, but not because he knew who it was. Or maybe it was. Maybe he needed to apologize to him, too. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m sorry i’m sorry i’msorryi’m—“ 

 

Derek whispered, “Stop,” one more time, and Stiles did. For a minute. Because the panic was still there, and now he could feel the pain setting in from his busted up knuckles, and his throat was raw, and maybe he was in _so much trouble_. Maybe he wasn’t getting better. 

 

“I n-need help,” he sobbed. “Derek… I need _help_.” 

 

And, for once, Derek didn’t snap out something like ‘I told you so,’ or ‘You’re an idiot’. 

 

He simply stared at him for a solid minute, said, “Okay,” and kidnapped him. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles' ringtone is: The Wolf -Mumford and Sons


End file.
